The Strings of Murder Page 3

  How could I have called the man anything better? Photography was immensely expensive, only used in extraordinary cases like the Whitechapel murders, yet that ham-fisted troglodyte treated the equipment with ludicrous disregard; he constantly broke the tripods of his Gandolfi camera, and his lenses and plates were always smeared with grease from his bacon-stuffed luncheons. I’d failed to compose myself when he handed me photographs of a crime scene scattered with dry pieces of half-chewed sausage.

  I cleared my throat. ‘I am aware that my reaction may have been regarded as … severe by some people; nevertheless, I am not in the habit of mistreating –’

  Monro was casting me such a killing stare that I thought it better to save my comments.

  ‘In brief,’ he said, ‘I cannot keep you in service.’

  Just as Sir Charles had predicted …

  Monro clearly planned to replace all the high officials whose allegiances were with Sir Charles Warren. His ‘substantial changes’ were simply an exercise to surround himself with allies and secure his own authority. It was all a pathetic game of politics; one that sadly would send my career to the cesspit.

  ‘I understand you perfectly,’ I managed to utter, not a single tremor in my voice.

  ‘If you have nothing further to say I must ask you to leave. I am expecting a very important visitor at any moment and I don’t want him to find you here. God knows I have grim news to tell him.’

  I stood up and could not restrain myself. ‘Is it about the musician slaughtered in Scotland?’

  I could almost see the blood deserting Monro’s face. ‘What did you … how do you …?’ And then his skin went from ghostly pale to furious red. ‘Are you trying to blackmail me, you pathetic little man?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ I said impassively. ‘Blackmail would imply that I needed something from you, and there will be ice in hell before a Frey of Magdeburg seeks the aid of a dirty Lothian dweller. Good da–’

  At that instant the door slammed open and a short, plump man walked in briskly, wrapped in a heavy raincoat and followed by four guards and a young assistant. The man threw his coat aside and then I saw his round belly, bald head and bushy beard. I felt a twinge in the chest as I realized that it was none other than Lord Robert Cecil, Third Marquess of Salisbury and Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.

  Monro stood up automatically, almost knocking over his big chair.

  ‘Prime Minister,’ Monro said lavishly. ‘Welcome to our –’

  ‘Keep the flattery to yourself,’ snapped Salisbury as he walked past me. He cast me an irate stare. ‘Who is this?’

  Monro seemed paralysed. He opened his mouth twice but not a sound came out.

  Seeing that he could not manage to speak, I bowed respectfully. ‘Inspector Ian Frey, My Lord.’

  ‘I was just dismissing him,’ Monro jumped in. ‘Inspector Frey was one of Warren’s inner circle. I am sorry you had to –’

  ‘Your face is familiar,’ the prime minister said, ignoring Monro entirely. ‘Are you not the detective who incarcerated the arsenic black widow?’

  ‘Good Mary Brown,’ I said at once, my chest swelling like a bellows. ‘I am indeed, sir.’

  There was an almost imperceptible change in Lord Salisbury’s expression – I would have missed it had I not been standing so close to him. He held a firm stare for a moment, slowly arching an eyebrow, studying me. I could tell that a million thoughts were teeming in his head … and I did not like it.

  ‘Leave us, Mr Frey,’ he ordered, but in a tone notably less harsh than his first roar.

  I bowed again and left the room immediately, with the acute stare of the prime minister imprinted in my head.

  I still shudder a little when I think of that moment. Had Monro simply dismissed me as ‘no one’, or had I left the room but a minute earlier, the rest of my life would have been decidedly different.

  3

  It took me only a few hours to give Inspector Swanson a full account of the cases I’d been handling. My neat filing system was of great help, and when I left the office the man was digging confidently in the piles of documents.

  Wiggins, who had been my assistant for over three years, could not hide his sorrow. I could tell he enjoyed his work with the police force almost as much as I did, and it angered me that I would not be able to see how his career progressed.

  As I walked out of the room Wiggins tried to compose some farewell, but only managed to swallow painfully. I patted his shoulder and winked.

  ‘I will be back, Wiggins,’ I assured him, even though I did not maintain the faintest hope. Once outside, I hailed the first cab I saw.

  I realized with utter dismay that I was suddenly free to attend my parents’ dinner party … and to tell them the grim news. My father was not going to be amused, and my brother Laurence would surely make the most of it. I looked at my pocket watch and calculated that I would have enough time to go Suffolk Street, refresh my clothing and call the barber for that shave I had skipped. An unemployed castaway I might be, but never a scruffy one.

  The Freys’ mansion in Hyde Park Gate was not far from Kensington Gardens. The elegant house had an immaculate white-plastered façade, which glowed amidst the greyness of London as the carriage drove me into the wide, pristine lane. The maples were already losing their foliage, yet the street was kept immaculate by hard-working sweepers.

  The carriage stopped in front of the three-storey house, where the butler was already waiting for me and promptly took my coat, hat and gloves.

  I was greeted by dark oak panelling, green velvet carpets and the mansion’s characteristic scent; a mixture of rosewater and fine tobacco, which always brought the warmest childhood memories to my head.

  I went through a long corridor, decorated with portraits of twelve generations of Freys, going all the way back to the Protestant banker who had fled from Magdeburg in 1583. Despite the swings of fashion, the Frey men never liked to parade facial hair; not a single portrait showed moustaches or beards or mutton chops, and my father and three brothers, like me, were always cleanly shaven.

  I could have stared at those paintings for hours – even though they have been on the wall since before I can remember, they still cast a strange spell on me. I can’t help feeling proud of my family’s history and achievements; although they cannot be called mine, they have always made me feel part of something larger than my own short life.

  Suddenly, the echoes of a violin came to my ears. It was Elgie, my youngest brother, playing in the nearest drawing room.

  It was a wide, airy room with large windows and a high ceiling. An exquisite tapestry depicting the figures of a dragon, a lion and a unicorn decorated one of the walls, and the others were occupied by Italian canvases depicting Mediterranean landscapes. Mahogany chairs and settees upholstered in velvet were evenly distributed over a Persian carpet, and a merry blaze crackled in the wide fireplace.

  Standing in the centre of the room, his back to me, was my eighteen-year-old sibling. Despite the age difference, Elgie had always been my favourite brother. I had always thought him too thin and narrow-shouldered, and now, with his jacket removed in order to play more freely, his slender figure was all too obvious.

  Sitting before him were my father and stepmother, listening enraptured as a footman stood ready with a tray of pâté and cold meats. They were about to greet me, but I lifted a hand, so that they remained silent until Elgie finished his piece.

  I cursorily inspected the room while savouring the vivacious music. Only after a moment did I notice another young man seated close to the fire: my second youngest brother, Oliver.

  I honestly wish I could say more about him, but Oliver is dullness made man. I remember that even as a baby he would lie still in his cradle, not crying, not playing and not even moving; just staring at nothing with his round blue eyes. As a boy he was not fond of running or hunting or riding horses. I expected him to show a more intellectual disposition, and for a long time I presented him with books, mu
sical instruments and art materials. Long after my father gave up on him I was still taking him to museums, theatres and operas, but he did not seem interested in anything other than sitting around nibbling at biscuits. As a result he turned into a rather chubby young man with a rounded, pale face. That evening, settled a bit too close to the fireplace, his cheeks had gone terribly red, as if marked with circular branding irons. His face showed utter discomfort, yet I knew he would never change his seat.

  Compared to Elgie – who was standing, thin and lively, playing his violin vigorously – it was almost impossible to believe they were brothers.

  Unlike me, Elgie and Oliver have light hair and pale blue eyes, and are of rather weak constitutions. Our different physiques are only natural, for they are my half-brothers, sons of my father and his second wife.

  Elgie concluded with a vigorous trill and the whole family applauded (Oliver rather lethargically). His musician’s ear instantly perceived unexpected applause behind him and he turned to welcome me.

  ‘Ian! I thought you’d be busy elsewhere!’

  I grinned and patted his shoulder. ‘Well, you are usually wrong, Elgie. That piece was wonderful, though. What is it called?’

  ‘Paganini’s 24th Caprice in A minor. You should recognize it by now.’

  ‘How progressive. I thought you only played baroque music.’

  After nodding a quick greeting to Oliver, I stepped forward to kiss the hand of my stepmother, Catherine.

  ‘What a surprise, Ian. It is so good to see you.’

  ‘And you, Catherine,’ I replied with utter politeness.

  I have always managed to conceal the contempt I feel for that woman. Catherine White married my father when I was nine years old, and even then I would only twist my mouth and treat her with a pretend deference.

  At thirty-eight she still looked rather well. I always thought that her long neck seemed slightly tilted backward by the weight of her extravagant plaits. That stretched neck also gave her a proud look, highlighted by her total lack of humour – she always sat with the straightest back, her hands demurely folded on her lap and her fierce eyes evaluating everything.

  My father, now an old man of sixty-five (and twenty-seven years older than his second wife), saluted me with little affection. He’d always been as distant a figure as the portraits on the walls. Even though he used to be a very refined gentleman, my father had recently begun to disregard his manners as well as his health. He had been gaining weight around his waist, and I cannot recall ever seeing him without a glass of some spirit in his hand. That evening he was holding a fat balloon of cognac, the corners of his mouth peppered with breadcrumbs. I was glad he still composed himself at larger parties.

  ‘You could have told us that you were coming,’ he grunted.

  ‘There were some unexpected issues,’ I replied, hoping to appear deferential but not servile in front of the old man. ‘I trust I am still welcome.’

  ‘But of course you are!’ Catherine cried, trying, as usual, to smooth the edges. ‘Your father is just a little troubled that you have not come to dine with us in such a long while.’ Conciliatory she might appear, but Catherine emphasized the precise words that would worsen my father’s mood.

  ‘Forsaking his family and good connections for that preposterous excuse of a job,’ Father grumbled in a monotone. ‘Your grandfather must be turning in his grave.’

  How many times we’d had that discussion I cannot tell. I looked around, trying to find any way to change the subject.

  ‘So where is my dearest Laurence?’ I asked with sarcasm.

  ‘Your brother had the delicacy to send a message,’ Catherine told me. ‘He is detained in Chancery Lane, but he assured us he would be here in time for dinner.’

  ‘Which means he should be here within the next seven minutes,’ I retorted, but almost as if I’d just called him, we heard the doorbell. Elgie went to the window.

  ‘Speak of the Devil …’

  While my stomach twisted, Catherine spoke cheerfully. ‘How delightful! We shall have a full party for the first time in months.’

  I blew inside my cheeks as I thought, If only etiquette allowed me to kick a woman …

  A moment later Laurence stepped into the drawing room with his confident gait, the most elegant attire and holding a walking cane that he had no need of at all.

  People have always remarked how alike we look. Laurence and I share the dark eyes and hair of our late mother Cecilia, a lady of French descent, and our long faces with narrow jaws and high cheekbones undeniably come from the late Monsieur Plantard, our grandfather on our mother’s side. Until very recently we both had the same tall, rangy figure, but my brother’s more sedentary job as a lawyer was giving him a thicker waist. We have been told that we share the same acute stare, but there is a permanent hint of mockery and condescension in Laurence that I sincerely hope I lack.

  ‘Good evening, family!’ he said in his deep, loud voice.

  ‘We thought you would be detained,’ Father said, smiling for the first time that evening. ‘But it is good to have you here.’

  Laurence poured himself a glass of cognac. ‘I almost did not come, but some incredible news forced me, Father.’ The corners of his mouth were slightly tilted in a scornful smile. I could see his attack coming. ‘Ian,’ he said, turning to me, ‘I heard from James Swanson that you have been thrown out of Scotland Yard … in a quite shocking manner … Is that true?’

  Catherine gasped, but that was the only noise besides the fire crackling. I felt the colour leaving my face.

  ‘Why do you ask if you already know the answer?’ I snapped.

  ‘Dear Lord!’ Father let out, covering his brow.

  ‘Ian, it cannot be true,’ said Catherine. ‘Your father will be so disappointed!’

  ‘I can see he is bloody disappointed!’ I cried. ‘He is sitting right next to you!’

  ‘Do not speak to your stepmother like that!’ Father roared. From the corner of my eye I saw Oliver crouching in his seat and Elgie gripping his violin with shaking hands. ‘What disgrace you have brought upon the Freys!’

  ‘Indeed,’ Laurence said. ‘And you have not heard the best part; the bit everybody is talking about. Your dear son was dismissed in front of Lord Salisbury himself! Not content with that, he also called James Monro a dirty Lothian dweller.’

  Catherine clasped my father’s hand. ‘Oh, Ian, pray, pray tell us it is not true.’

  ‘I was not dismissed right in front of the prime minister …’ I said warily. ‘Rather a few seconds before he entered the room, and then Monro had to brief him.’

  ‘How can you even joke about it?’ Laurence hissed. ‘Do you believe that any respectable institution … or person … will take you on after this? You should have never joined the CID if you lacked the stomach to –’

  I hurled myself towards Laurence and seized him by the collar, my eyes blazing.

  ‘Ian, don’t! ’ Catherine yelled.

  ‘Stop it, you imbecile!’ I whispered to Laurence, soft enough for only him to hear. ‘You would have cracked on your first week of duty.’

  ‘Ian, let go of your brother! Now! ’ Father ordered, and I tossed Laurence away. ‘What would people say if they knew that the Frey brothers jump on each other like wild cats?’

  Then we heard the butler clearing his throat. He’d come to announce dinner a while ago, and had been looking at the scene in composed amusement.

  ‘Very well,’ said my father. ‘We can discuss this over dinner.’

  ‘I am not hungry,’ I replied immediately, making my way to the door.

  ‘Oh, but you should stay,’ Elgie jumped in, pulling my arm, and then whispered in my ear. ‘I have some big news too!’

  I sighed in resignation. Somehow I could never say no to that rogue. ‘Very well, I will stay. But I will sit next to you.’

  We ate in an uncomfortable silence. Elgie, trying to ease the general mood, was telling us his funniest stories from the Lyceum Th
eatre, where he was a resident musician.

  ‘… and then Mr Sullivan said we would all be impressed by how accomplished his niece is at the harpsichord – I had to bite my lip not to say that the harpsichord sounds like two skeletons copulating on a tin roof!’

  ‘Elgie!’ cried his mother, ‘I will not have such foul language at the table! Neither will your father!’

  The old man, however, was laughing under his napkin. Elgie saw the perfect moment to strike.

  ‘Talking about Mr Sullivan, he composed a fantastic score for the new Macbeth. Mama heard it.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. Mr Sullivan invited me to a rehearsal; marvellous music. It only annoys me that they’ll have that old trollop Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth. Then again, one does need a vixen for that part.’

  ‘Being “The Scottish Play”,’ Elgie went on, ‘they want to take it on tour to Edinburgh next summer …’ His eyes fell on me, and I knew at once where he was going. ‘The Scottish Theatre Company is short of musicians, so – well, they offered me a place there.’

  Catherine and my father looked at him blankly, as if they had heard an unfinished sentence. Elgie had to spell it out for them, not a trace of humour in his face.

  ‘I want to go.’

  Their stares progressed from vacant to disturbed. Catherine carefully put down her cutlery. ‘Elgie, my dear, you cannot be serious.’

  ‘I am. It is a great opportunity. I will be first violin!’

  Father snorted. ‘First violin in Scotland! My, oh my, what an achievement! I’d rather you played third triangle in the bloody Whitechapel parish.’

  ‘Father!’

  ‘Think of the practicalities,’ said Laurence, as condescending as always. ‘Where would you stay? We have no relatives or acquaintances up there.’

  ‘I could rent a room,’ said Elgie, making his mother gasp. ‘Well, Ian does it.’

  I sank in my seat.

  ‘We are not discussing Ian,’ said my father. ‘You are far too young to live on your own in a different country!’

  Elgie let out the expected: ‘I’m not too young, Father. I’m eighteen years old!’ and then threw in some salt: ‘Do you want me to live here for ever and become another Oliver?’